Acoustic at the Ryman

Brown / Kobalt;
2014

Find it at:

Thanks to its venue, Acoustic at the Ryman can't be just a simple live album, as that storied concert hall in Nashville carries far too much cultural and historical baggage. Band of Horses played a two-night stand there in April 2013, and their decision to unplug their electric guitars in favor of acoustic suggests a knowledge of the venue's long life as the home of country music. It's certainly an impressive name on the album cover, and definitely the most compelling aspect of this pallid set. Seemingly intended to legitimize the band's music—specifically, their two most recent albums of diminishing-returns bro rock—the venue conjures up a very specific musical legacy that Band of Horses simply cannot live up to.

The red-brick tabernacle on Fifth Avenue in Nashville was built in 1892, but it wasn’t known as the Ryman Auditorium until the 1900s, when it was renamed after a local businessman, saloon proprietor, and riverboat captain. It wasn’t known for country music, however, until 40 years later: The Grand Ole Opry radio show relocated to that space when it outgrew nearby War Memorial Auditorium. Broadcast hundreds of miles in every direction, the show became so popular that the Ryman was soon identified as the home of country music—or, as it is currently billed, the “mother church.” The country music industry, if not necessarily the music itself, eventually outgrew the venue, and in the early 1970s, the Opry moved to a theme park outside of Nashville, which held more fans in its megachurch-like auditorium. For two decades, the Ryman sat downtown empty and neglected, and was nearly torn down. Thanks to the efforts of local artists and fans—including Emmylou Harris, who filmed a series of concerts there in the early 1990s—the building was refurbished and reopened as a concert hall and museum, its rustic ambience and wooden pews providing a stark contrast to the hermetic confines of Opryland.

Especially in a town that saw young hat acts displacing established artists, the Ryman became a local symbol of the industry’s neglect of its own legacy. In some ways, the venue is a sanctuary not unlike Preservation Hall in New Orleans or the Old Town School of Folk Music in Chicago, where certain ideals survive alongside the music. But its emphasis on country has broadened to include all types of what is now considered Americana and roots music. Neil Young and Erasure both recorded concerts there in the 2000s, and the stage has hosted younger acts like Coldplay, Mumford & Sons, and Wilco.

Recording an album at the Ryman—and branding the record as such—signals a certain populism that Ben Bridwell and the band have embraced awkwardly over the last few years and albums. They didn’t “sell out,” necessarily, but by trying to puncture indie rock’s notorious insularity, they’ve shed the eccentricities that once defined and distinguished them. Nowadays they sound more America than Americana. Their reverence for the venue explains the acoustic set-up, which makes Acoustic a pretty wan live souvenir, alternately granola-crunchy and sappy-soggy. Aside from the rich sound of the room—which subtly mimics the vocal reverb Band of Horses was known for ca. 2006—there’s not much in the music that nods to the venue or screams “country music,” and that’s fine. Preferable even, as who wants to hear Band of Horses play “Ring of Fire”? But the Ryman—or at least the idea of the Ryman—does reinforce the self-seriousness of Bridwell’s songwriting, which means lyrics of “Factory” and “Slow Cruel Hands of Time” sound even hokier here than they did on the studio albums. Worst is (still) “Neighbor”, which is sort of The Room of folk rock songs. But at least Tommy Wiseau never endorsed hackeysack anarchy or wrote a line like “Now if Bartles & Jaymes didn’t need no first names/ We could live by our own laws in favor.” Sung a cappella at the Ryman, it all sounds so much more ridiculous.

Acoustic has all the ponderousness of a forgotten episode of MTV Unplugged, and that setting only highlights Band of Horses’ worst tendencies. “Slow Cruel Hands of Time” and “Detlef Schrempf” sound ambitiously dour, the heavy mood sucking all the air out of the songs. “Wicked Gil”, an upbeat number from Everything All the Time, gets slowed down to a shambling pace that replaces its urgent hook and tangle of guitars with a kind of aw-shucks resignation: “I know evil people will say things,” Bridwell sings like he’s throwing up his hands. On the other hand, more recent songs like “Slow Cruel Hands” and “Factory” were downbeat to begin with, so they just sound redundant in this setting. And if you’ve ever wondered what “The Funeral” might sound like hunted-and-pecked on a piano, you’re in luck, I guess.

Acoustic sounds like the culmination of a H.O.R.D.E.-ward trajectory Band of Horses have been tracing since their second release: beefing up their sound, abandoning the outsize moments that distinguished their debut, yet maintaining that same I-love-you-man rock romanticism. It’s either the most depressing career arc or the greatest indie-rock trolling of the twenty-first century. Coming at the nadir of that trajectory, Acoustic sounds shot through with a weird desperation, or perhaps a hope that the venue will lend these songs some gravity and legitimacy. It doesn’t. It can’t. On this live album, the Ryman is just a room with good acoustics.